From these lone shades and ever-gloomy bowers,
Once the dear scenes of Henry's softer hours !
What tender strains of passion can impart
The pangs of absence to an amorous heart!
Far, far too faint the powers of language prove,
Language that slow interpreter of love!
Souls pair'd like ours, like ours to union wrought,
Converse by silent sympathy of thought;
O then, by that mysterious art, divine
The wild impatience of my breast by thine !
And, to conceive what I would say to thee,
Conceive, my Love, what thou wouldst say to met